


Odi et Amo

by thewinterose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ansty kissing and crying because I love that, Cousin Incest, Dany fans don't read, F/M, Mentions of the undercover lover theory because I have faith in Jon Snow, References to boatbang, The Borgias au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterose/pseuds/thewinterose
Summary: Jon Snow returns to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen and reunites with his cousin Sansa Stark. The reunion is not pleasant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into the world of fanfic and it's Jonsa so go figure. I wrote this fic based on a tumblr post, so it is no way my idea. I asked the blog if I could write it as a fanfic and they agreed so here we are. It's based of a scene from the show The Borgias, which I recommend! Enjoy and leave constructive criticism if you wish.

Sansa had been gracious to the Dragon Queen. When she arrived at Winterfell with two dragons at her back and demands of fealty at her lips, Sansa complied with all the grace of a Queen. She saw the dormant madness shining in Daenerys Targaryen’s violet eyes, the slight twitch at the corners of her lips at the thought of burning her alive. Sansa was familiar with how the want of sadism shone in a person’s eyes, with how it flickered subtly over their features. She saw it first hand with Joffrey. The crossbow in his hands, the smirk on his face as his eyes roved eagerly over her quaking form with something like pleasure shining in their depths. Ramsay had it too whenever he walked into what used to be Robb’s bedchamber, whenever he used to rape her on what had been her dearest brother’s bed. 

In her heart, Sansa knew that she was smarter than the Silver Queen, so she fixed that empty and pleasant smile on her face before leading the Queen and her envoy inside her home. Winterfell is my home, she thought as their steps sounded behind her, they will not frighten me. 

Jon was there too, with Ser Davos at his side. When Sansa imagined seeing Jon again, she thought it would be like something out of a dream. Snow would fall gently around them as they clung to each other. Promises would fall from their lips and they would mean every word, for he was Jon and she was Sansa and they would protect each other, even when she couldn’t truly believe it. 

But Jon did not hold her in his arms the way he did at Castle Black. In true, he hardly spared her a glance and when his eyes did eventually meet hers, he offered her the expected thank you for running the North in his absence and little else. She greeted him with a cold ‘My Lord’, for he was no longer her king, and a nod in return. He did, however, embrace Arya and Bran enthusiastically and rather whole heartedly. Sansa could not blame him for that, for she had done the same before it all went to hell. 

She looked over to where the King in the North sat beside his Dragon Queen. ‘Dany’ he called her when they arrived. He appeared solemn, as he always did, and his chin rested in his palm as he listened to the great Breaker of Chains regale tales about her time spent conquering the wondrous city of Meereen. His eyes snapped over to hers and held for a moment before fluttering away, something like shame flickering across them. Sansa felt the quiet rage she ignored boil to the surface in that moment. He had much to be ashamed of, very much, and she had enough of playing the pleasant hostess for the day. Frankly, if she had to look at him and his “ethereal” Queen for just a minute longer, she would attempt to get the damned dragon to burn her herself. For a wild moment, she wondered how upset Jon would be. She wondered if he would feel anything at all. 

“Excuse me, Your Grace. I tire from all the excitement of our new monarch coming to Winterfell. I’m afraid I feel the need to rest,” Sansa said, a cool pleasantness coating her silver tongue. Daenerys nodded in response to her. “If you feel so inclined, you may leave Lady Sansa.” 

Sansa wanted to snap that she had no right to give her permission to do anything in her own home when they were using up resources that could go to their people, but she forced the words down and merely nodded in reply. 

She turned and walked quickly to where her solar was. Eyes followed her as she left, but she could not feel too concerned with what that meant right now. The anger she suppressed for hours nearly burst at the seams, and all she wanted to do was curse Jon and banish him for betraying her. When she arrived at her solar she settled for the second best option: throwing things. Whatever she got her hands on, she bashed against the wall. All the while imagining it was Jon’s head, or his pretty little Queen’s. 

The door to her solar opened just as she was about to hurl another book. Jon’s wide grey eyes met hers, and the rage swimming in her veins burned hotter than dragon fire at his sudden appearance. With a great cry, she threw the book at his head and watched in dismay as he dodged it. “Sansa!” He cried as she picked up another object, “Stop this right now!” Sansa ignored him, shaking her head fervently as she flung a tiny wooden wolf statue at her cousin’s arm. Surprisingly it actually hit him, which brought some small measure of pride to her battered heart. 

Jon rushed over to where she stood, taking her arms in his in an effort to still her. “Why?” She cried tearfully, “Why did you do it?” His eyes met hers again, remaining steadfast and calm as he took time to explain himself. “I had no choice. It was for the survival of Winterfell. For the honor of our family.” Sansa raged against his chest, shoving and slapping him where she could. “You have no honor! You had every choice! You bent the knee, you betrayed the North, and you betrayed our family!” She screamed, squirming in his arms, wishing simultaneously that she could melt into him and be as far from him as possible. Daenerys’ touch lingered on his skin, forcing it’s presence onto her. Sansa wondered if he held the Dragon Queen as tenderly as he used to hold her. 

She struggled against his grasp with a renewed vigor, not interested in hearing his excuses. He had none that would excuse himself of his transgressions. “Sansa, sweetling, listen to me,” Jon pleaded desperately, but she did not wish to. He could burn in the seven hells for all that he mattered to her. “You said you had no choice. Did you have no choice when you fucked her?” She demanded hotly, shoving away from him when his arms stilled in his shock at her words. 

“Everyone knows what you did Jon. They call you a repeat of Robb Stark, the last King in the North who lost because of a foreign whore.” Jon moved to explain himself. “What happened between Daenerys and myself is none of anyone’s business. I did it because I had to,” he said. Sansa scoffed in disbelief. “Had to?” She repeated mockingly, her voice sounding so similar to that haughty little girl she used to be. 

“Did she force you Jon? Or did she just happen to fall into your lap?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Everything I’ve done has been for the honor of our family. I had no choice.”

A resounding slap snapped his face to the side, with another following just after. “You had every choice!” Sansa screeched, delivering hard smacks to his chest. “Where was your honor! Where was your strength! Where was your love for me!” She sobbed furiously, banging her hands against his hard body, hoping to inflict some measure of pain. If only so that he could feel the hurt she did. Jon grabbed her wrists, pulling them and her towards his battered chest. His handsome face was scrunched up with pain and desperation, and he yanked her mouth furiously to his own. A pained, unintentional ‘I love you’ was said against his lips as he pressed them hard against each other. 

Relief at being in his arms bloomed like a hopeful flower in her heart, briefly overshadowing the torrential jealousy and heartbreak. Her lips melted into his own and she could’ve screamed at the bliss she felt, but she didn’t wish to break away from his wanting mouth. He kissed her desperately, harshly, and with little finesse, but it was the best kiss she ever had. Because it was from Jon. 

Their lips stayed locked for seconds more, their arms wrapped around each other in a desperate bid to become one, before Sansa remembered herself. Jon surrendered the North. He bent the knee and fucked the hateful bitch that rested in one of her rooms. With a hard shove, Sansa pushed away from Jon and silently prayed for Robb’s strength. 

“I will never forgive you for this,” Sansa said and watched as Jon’s eyes widened with a horrified realization. “Sansa, please,” he begged, nearly falling to his knees to get her to stay, to forgive him. She turned away from him, not wanting to see him grovel, not entirely sure she was strong enough to resist his apologies. “You bent the knee. You gave away our home to that crazy whore who calls herself Queen. For as long she breathes, I cannot forget what you did,” She said, steeling her voice even as tears ran down her pale cheeks. 

“I will make this right,” Jon vowed. “We will save the Seven Realms and I will give you back what I gave away. You’ll see. You just have to wait until it’s done.”

Sansa did not know what he was referring to and she did not wish to. She felt emotionally exhausted, as if she had been wrung dry and tossed to the side to be forgotten. She looked over her shoulder to see Jon, his head hung in shame, his face wet with tears, and wrinkled over with grief. She wanted to run to him, comfort him, and smooth over the lines of his face. However, she resisted the urge and turned to the door. 

Sansa walked out of the solar, her crying shook her body and heartbreak burned hot in her chest. With silent tears running down her face, she closed the door behind her. Jon’s distorted sobbing echoed through the wood.


	2. The Taste of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by (semi) popular demand! First of all I would like to thank everyone who read my story. I truly had no idea that so many of you would like it, much less read it. I originally didn't plan on adding to this, but since some of you guys asked for it, I did. Thank you to everyone who read my story and I hope you guys like this! Enjoy!

When Jon left to join the fight against the Night King, Sansa kept her face as impassive as she dared. After their confrontation in her solar, she did her utmost to ignore him. Her role as Lady of Winterfell made that task very simple, but every now and again she would catch his tall form roaming the halls, or her eyes would briefly catch onto his own. He was always hardest to ignore when that happened. When, for curiosity’s sake, she would glance over at him and find him already gazing at her. He always looked pleading then, desperate for her attention and affection, almost like Ghost. She would look away first in those moments, and for just a second she would revel in the power she held over him.

She knew it was wrong to feel that way, and the part of herself that was larger than her spite would condemn her dark satisfaction. But how could she help herself? Just days prior, Jon had ripped her bleeding heart out of her chest and stole it away with him. He hurt her and had, for a brief moment in time, completely destroyed her self-esteem. 

For years, Sansa contended with and learned from the likes of Cersei Lannister, who was world renowned for her hateful nature. Perhaps jealousy was just another thing she learned from her. 

____

 

Daenerys Targaryen hated her, Sansa could tell. Before she left with Jon for the War of the Dawn, Daenerys would stare her down in council meetings, blatantly disrespect her position as Lady of Winterfell, and spit vitriol at her whenever she noticed Jon’s longing gazes. What exacerbated her anger the most though, was the obvious respect and affection the Lords showed towards Sansa, yet withheld so gleefully from her. 

Whenever Sansa passed by the Dragon Queen’s rooms, she could hear the Queen’s rantings and ravings to her poor and weary Hand. Sansa smiled at the memory. Stormborn indeed. Daenerys had the self-control of a child and the predictability of a storm at sea. It was a wonder as to how she still had the support she did, though Sansa could see that waning a bit as well. When Tyrion had met with her to speak of his Queen, he mentioned her uncanny ability to inspire devotion. 

In Sansa’s honest opinion, she bet that “uncanny ability to inspire devotion” was most likely due to her dragons and her fondness for utilizing them, but she kept that to herself. She was still so very fond of her former husband after all. 

When Daenerys departed, Tyrion and Lord Varys did as well. They left to Dragonstone to further plan for when she would inevitably return to take her throne. 

That quiet, ugly part of Sansa hoped she never would. 

\----

Whenever the rare occasion came where Bran wasn’t in the Godswood, the Lady of Winterfell tended to go. She loved her brother still, dearly and with her whole heart, but he was so different now. Arya was too, but she still retained that wild, cut throat nature of hers that used to drive Sansa crazy as a child. They were much closer now than they used to be as children. When Sansa was haunted by Joffrey’s taunts or the ghost fingers of Ramsay upon her skin, she ran to her sister’s room. And when Sansa heard the shuffle of feet across her floor and felt the warmth of a body next to hers in the depths of the night, she knew Arya also depended on her when she was afraid of some unspoken demon. 

As she walked passed the weirwood trees, she could feel their wide, omniscient gaze on her. The Old Gods were always silent, and still as the dead they birthed, but they offered her a kind of comfort now. When she looked at them, she saw Father’s stone grey eyes and Robb’s warm and infectious grin. Her heart ached then. Oh how she missed them so. 

She sat at the white root of the weirwood tree, touching one of the nearby leaves. Her father used to say that she was physically the most Northern of his children. The blood red leaves of the weirwood almost blended in with the crimson of her hair and her skin was nearly as fair as the thick bark of the tree. As a child, she always felt a bit put out whenever he said that to her, for she didn’t wish to be Northern like the weirwood trees. She longed for the South. For the perfumed hair, silk dresses, and the intricate hair styles Robb would always tease her for wearing. 

Sansa chuckled, half a sob and half a laugh. She was so dumb then, and so innocent. For a moment she was envious of that silly little girl who knew nothing of pain and even less of suffering, but she pushed it aside. My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel, she thought, I am grateful to be steel. 

She plucked the red leaf off the hanging branch and brought it to her face. It was then that she thought of Jon, as she often did. Sansa was starting to think that every thought she had would connect to him somehow. Is that love or obsession? Where does the line start and where does it end? Would he know? Sansa wondered. 

It still hurt to think of her cousin. Whenever she thought of Daenerys and him sitting beside each other at dinner, her hand casually resting upon his arm like a mark of possession, Sansa would bristle in a barely restrained jealousy. She hated Daenerys. She wished her dead and her monsters along with her. A Mother of Monsters was all she was, along with being an entitled brat. 

Sansa in her anger, almost wished Jon dead too, but stopped herself before she could finish the vengeful thought. The only thing that would hurt worse than his betrayal would be his death. If he dies then so do I. There is no point in living if he is gone. All life would then fade into a cycle of survival, she thought. 

Sansa could never hate Jon, no matter how much she wished to. He took too much of her heart for her to ever get it back. It belonged to him now. It was him now. Hating Jon would be akin to hating herself. She couldn’t help herself, not even when she really tried. Jon was Jon. She loved him despite the circumstances, despite his faults. It was no use attempting to hate Jon when he made it so very easy to love him. 

Sansa’s vision blurred at the thought of him, of his kind grey eyes and his quiet strength. She brought the leaf to her mouth, briefly remembering how his lips felt against hers.  
“Come home soon,” Sansa whispered to the still air, her voice carried away by the winter winds. 

\----

 

Jon returned to Winterfell as the first rays of sunlight appeared over the horizon. He was thin, much thinner than what he was before he left, but his eyes were still the same shade of grey. 

Sansa stood off to the side as he was greeted by Arya and his friend, the large and bumbling Maester. As she watched him smile kindly at Arya and ruffle her hair, her love for him swelled in her chest to such a degree that she felt as if she could’ve burst with the feeling. 

It was when her eyes met his, however, that she felt the overwhelming need to fall into his embrace. But before she could even move, he was holding her in his arms tightly, a suspicious dampness falling upon her crimson locks. Without a moment of hesitation, she bound her arms around him and surged upwards to where his lips were. 

This new kiss was much like the first, and yet completely different. There was no anger this time, no slapping hands, or pleas for forgiveness. The desperation that fueled their passion is of a different kind, and the tears trailing down both of their faces are for a different reason. 

Sansa felt elated and free and unweighted by her bitter rage. It would be so easy to push away from him, to spit at his feet, and to leave him in tears like the last time, but she didn’t want to. He was alive, he was in Winterfell, and he was with her. 

She smiled through the kiss suddenly and she could feel his matching grin forming against her own. Sansa tasted the salt of their combined tears and the snow that fell from his hair. It tasted like Winterfell, and like innocence. It was the taste of dreams.


End file.
